


Le Fay

by afterandalasia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Black Swan Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coming of Age, F/F, Kinky, Self-Discovery, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:46:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morgana DuBois has dreamed of becoming the Prima Ballerina of Camelot ballet company for as long as she can remember. She lives to dance, dances to live. When she receives her chance and is cast in one of the lead roles of the newly-created 'Camelot' ballet, however, she does not expect how it will change her life - or change her.</p><p>Forced to confront herself and the world, Morgana is pushed to the edge. But suddenly, and unexpectedly, she feels as if she might just be able to fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Fay

**Author's Note:**

> A fusion of BBC's Merlin with the 2010 movie Black Swan. Or, Merlin: the kinky lesbian ballerina remix.
> 
> Written for the wonderful reel-merlin community on Livejournal, as run by the incredibly talented colacube. My thanks to [LJ] darkstar1991 for cheerleading, and to Sammy, my real-life friend and ballet teacher, for helping me get the ballet parts right.
> 
>  
> 
>  **Content notes:** Minor character death (offscreen), unspecified mental illness (Morgana), unspecified eating disorder (Morgana), violent thoughts and imagery, sex whilst both participants are intoxicated but consenting, powerplay aspects during sex.

Morgana watches the girl in the mirror dance.

Her black hair is tied up, restrained, her green eyes fiercely focused, unsmiling. The muscles of her body cord and work as she turns, fouettés en tournant, again, again, again.

On one of the slams onto pointe, the grip just isn’t there, and Morgana gasps as her foot gives way beneath her and she drops to her knees on the wooden floor. The shudder echoes through the room, and as she looks at her reflection in disappointment she can hear Morgause’s steps outside.

“Morgana!” Her sister bursts in, all dark blonde curls and wide, concerned brown eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Morgana sighs. She rolls so that she is sitting, starting to unwind the ribbons on her left pointe shoe. “I think these shoes are just worn through.”

Morgause drops to her knees and tries to remove the shoes herself, but Morgana wrestles her foot away and tucks it beneath her. It earns her a glare, but she does not want Morgause’s hands on her ankles today.

“I’m _fine_.”

“Well, then.” Morgause stands up, crisply, the softness and concern gone from her. She tucks her hair back behind her ear. “I’ve left lunch on the counter for you. I have to go to work.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before she leaves. Morgana throws her old pointe shoes at the door in frustration, cleans up her feet, then puts her anger to one side before she leaves. There’s no point in holding on to it too much, especially when auditions are taking place today.

 

 

 

 

Her lunch, as always, finds its way into the hands of one of the homeless people on Albion Road before Morgana walks through the doors of Camelot Ballet Company. Narrow corridors, bumping shoulders; this is her home, more than the little flat which she shares with her sister and where she has to shove her furniture into the corners of her room just so that she has room to practice her turns.

Training starts at nine, sharp, all of them lined up along the barre in leotards, tights, loose jogging pants. Part of the reason that Morgana works each morning and evening, part of the reason that she walks to work, is to be more supple already and not need the warm-up. As others draw ninety-degree angles with their arabesques, she arcs further, bringing her foot up behind her head.

Some of the others watch her with jealousy. She doesn’t care. She has worked for this, after all, practicing ballet for as long as she can remember. After their father died, Morgause gave up dancing so that Morgana could continue.

This year, though, she wants to be more than a first soloist, wants leading roles that would not require touring. Ygraine Pendragon is retiring from the company, and though the principals are already jostling for the position, Morgana allows herself hope, hope and self-confidence.

Everyone pretends not to notice when Uther, the company director, and his son enter, but Morgana can see the way that everyone puts just a little more effort as they stand on the balcony and examine them. She loses herself in her pliés and rises, her port de bras, the way that her body moves perfectly to her demand as she dances.

Arthur comes down from the stands and walks among them, tapping some of the girls on the shoulder. Despite herself, Morgana’s heart lifts into her mouth, but Arthur makes his circuit without touching her before moving back once again to the front of the studio. Uther joins him a moment later, arms crossed over his chest, an unreadable smile on his face. He allows them to continue for a short while longer, watching their rises, then claps his hands. They fall still in an instant.

“Good morning,” says Uther. He is still a powerful man, who commands a powerful presence when he stands among them. “Now, as you know, we are hoping to open this season with a bang. I have been in discussion with contacts, and we will be showing a new ballet: _Camelot_ , based on Arthurian legend.”

She wonders whether he got the idea from his son’s own name.

“I want it sparse, dramatic, powerful. The main roles will be that of Arthur himself, of Merlin, and of course of his half-sister, Morgan le Fay. It follows from the drawing of the sword in the stone, through his ascension, his betrayal by Guinevere, and the appearance of the child Mordred, under Morgan’s tutelage, leading to Arthur’s death.

“Those soloists and principals who were tapped on the shoulder, go to your practise as usual. Those who were not, get warmed up for pointe work and be at the small mirror studio in half an hour for auditions for Morgan.”

He leaves, without giving them an opportunity for reaction. In his wake, excited chatter breaks out, among those who are to audition and those who have been turned down this time, and even Morgana cannot help a smile that makes heat swell in her chest.

 

 

 

 

Camelot Ballet Company has many fine principals, fine soloists. But now, it does not have a Prima Ballerina. Morgana regrets her worn-through pointe shoes as she stands with the others, stretching, waiting to dance the variation that they had been shown by the dance teacher Alice. She risks a glance at the others around her: of the principals, only Catrina is present; of the four first soloists, only Gwen and Morgana have made it. There are, to Morgana’s surprise, also soloists present: Vivian, Mithian and Freya are all doing their own stretches.

Uther works down the list. Catrina is the first to perform the variation, prim and reserved, almost arrogant. In some ways, Morgana is jealous of her movements, the classical lines, but she cannot help feeling that Catrina’s dancing is at least a little old-fashioned. Without comment, Uther waves her aside to cool down, and Catrina frowns darkly at him.

Gwen goes before Morgana. Her dancing is, as always, warm and effortless, as if she is inviting the audience to come and learn her secrets. She has done some lovely solos in the past, played some roles beautifully, and had made a good second for the tender Ygraine. Uther, however, is shaking his head slowly, as if in regret.

Morgause is not one for fairytales and stories, unless they involve ballets that Morgana might need to know in order to perform them. Beautiful though it is, Morgana grits her teeth when _Swan Lake_ is the choice of film for the evening. She has seen every performance more times than she can remember. There have been ballets based on Arthurian legend before, though, and Morgana has seen them. She remembers the dark, powerful, seductive Morgan le Fay dominating the stage, taking on Merlin in grand battles, standing over the dead King Arthur.

“Morgana,” says Uther, interrupting her thoughts as she is lying in the box splits. Her head snaps round, and she draws up in slow, strong movements as he gestures impatiently for her to take to the centre of the room.

Feet in first position, bras bas. As Geoffrey, on the piano, starts to play, she rises on to pointe and feels her body respond to the music. Her eyes follow the long, elegant lines that her hands make in the air, her feet move in sharp, efficient ways. Tightening to pirouettes, leaning out into chasses, the music seems to power her body as she feels the drama of it pounding through her.

She is in fouettés en tournant, eight counts, when the fire door to the room slams open and a gust of cold wind lances in. The sound catches her off-balance, and for the second time in one day she stumbles.

Blood rushes to her cheeks; she _never_ misses a step. Only Morgause has ever seen Morgana make mistakes, so sternly does she practice at home in order to be perfect when she is in the studio. Angrily, Morgana glares at the newcomer, another pale and dark-haired young woman who is now embracing Uther warmly.

“Girls!” Uther turns, arm around the woman’s shoulders. The music has stopped, and he acts as if Morgana had not been mid-display. “I’d like you to meet our new soloist, transferring to us from the Tintagel Company. This is Nimueh, our rising star.”

The woman laughs, not a girlish giggle but a deep-throated laugh that has her throwing her head back. Uther slaps her on the back – or it might be on the rear, it happens too fast – as she walks towards the others.

“Go warm up,” he says.

“Oh, I’m fine.” Nimueh puts up her hair, which has fine braids running through it, into a messy bun. Morgana resists the urge to check that her own hair is perfectly neat. “Had to run here, anyway.”

The other soloists are looking at her with a mixture of curiosity, annoyance and amusement – the latter mostly from Mithian, who is always above getting into the petty fights that the rest of the ballet dancers occasionally find themselves ravelled in.

Finally, Morgana clears her throat, and Uther looks round as he remembers her. “Shall I continue, or shall I go from the top?” she asks.

“No, that’s fine.” And he waves her away, that same dismissive gesture that makes her blood boil but which she daren’t speak about. That same gesture that he used with Catrina, about whom there are rumours beyond belief. “Sophia, you’re up next.”

 

 

 

 

Usually, Morgana does not leave the studio at lunchtimes. It means changing, and having to wrap up warm against the British weather, and struggling to warm up fully when they get back for their evening classes. Today, though, she cannot stay within the confines of the building any longer, and escapes to Lakeland Park to sit on one of the old wooden benches looking over the pond that gave the Park its name. It really isn’t impressive enough to be called a lake, and most people gave up long ago.

The sky is a sullen grey overhead, and she wonders if bright blue and fluffy white clouds might be able to cheer her a little. She doubts it. Her stomach twists a little in hunger, but she knows that will fade. She’s worked hard this year to maintain her seven stone, four pound figure, and does not intend to let it slip just because she’s had a bad audition.

Bad audition, indeed. Bloody Nimueh and her interruption, bloody Uther and his dismissive gesture. He had said just a couple of weeks ago that he wanted to feature Morgana more. At this rate, she was going to be a handmaiden of Guinevere by the time that they went to stage, barely any better than being a member of the corps.

She looks around for a stone to throw into the pond, but can’t even find any. Great. Apparently even her anger is going to be spoilt today.

A squawk next to her makes her look round, to find that a large black bird has settled on the back of the bench beside her. It looks at her from one overly-intelligent eye, unafraid even when she flops her chin onto one hand.

“Hope you’re having more luck than me today, buddy,” Morgana mutters. What was that rhyme again? One rook is a crow; a flock of crows are rooks? Or the other way around? The bird doesn’t seem to give a damn, so she lets it slide. It caws in response. “Yeah,” she says. “You and me both.”

She reaches out as if to brush the bird gently away, not wanting it to spend too long around humans, but it doesn’t even flinch. Frowning, more tentative, Morgana brushes her fingers down the bird’s glossy black wing, feeling the soft pattern of the feathers, the sleek oil that keeps them waterproof. The bird holds her gaze, and she sees herself reflected in its depths.

Feet pound on the path behind her, and the moment is gone. With an explosive caw, the bird flies off, leaving only a small black feather on the bench in its wake. Morgana flinches from its wings, then turns with a scowl to greet the interloper. Her anger only deepens when she realises that it is Nimueh, shorts pulled on over her black ballet tights that are certainly not regulation here, her hair loose around her face and over the shoulders off her coat.

“Hey,” says Nimueh, sliding onto the bench beside her right where the bird had been. “Morgana, right? I just wanted to apologise for earlier.”

She has the bluest eyes that Morgana has ever seen, and one of the most hypnotic voices that Morgana has ever heard. Still, she would rather have the bird back.

She waved it away. “Whatever. It happens.”

She managed to bite back from saying ‘shit happens’, but it was a close thing. Nimueh, though, catches her hand, turning it to stroke the point inside Morgana’s wrist where the veins come to the surface. It sends a tingle down Morgana’s arm, but she snatches her hand away.

“Really,” says Nimueh, but Morgana is getting to her feet. “I’m sorry.”

There is a tone to her apology that Morgana doesn’t like, as if she is apologising for something much greater than just barging in at the wrong moment. She shoves her hands into her pockets and strides back down the path, and the kernel of anger in her mind puts out its first shoot. She is not going to let the inopportune timing of a fool soloist from Tintagel stop her from getting the biggest role of the season. The role that was meant to be hers.

 

 

 

 

Standing outside Uther’s office, she finds the black feather in her pocket, and doesn’t remember putting it there. It shines slightly, like coal, in her hand. She puts it aside, though, and knocks sharply on Uther’s door, barely waiting for the rumble of an answer before walking in.

From behind his desk and over his reading glasses, Uther looks up, apparently unimpressed. Morgana has never seen him impressed in her life.

“I want to re-audition for the role of Morgan le Fay,” she announces. Her voice comes out stronger than she had thought it might, more imposing. She likes the feeling.

Uther, however, apparently does not. He turns back to the notation he is reading. “Too late. I have given the role to Mithian.”

Anger bristles underneath Morgana’s skin. Mithian is a good dancer, yes, but she is unassuming, not memorable. She will not shine. “Mithian? You think she can carry the performance? You know that I can dance far better than her.”

“Ballet is not all about dancing, Morgana,” says Uther. Apparently, her impertinence is enough to make him not only look up, but put his papers aside. Good, let him look at her. Let him remember that she exists.

“Then what? Why Mithian?”

“Because Mithian commands a presence,” he says. Morgana has to work not to laugh, in exasperation and disbelief. “She has a command, and she is always in control.”

Another flash. From somewhere, Morgana feels as if she could set the world on fire, and before the moment fades or burns out she slams her hands down onto Uther’s desk. He actually jumps. “Then take this as my commanding presence. Morgan le Fay should have been my role.”

For a long moment they stand there, locked eye-to-eye, and Uther’s expression is unreadable. Then, as fast as it came on, Morgana feels the fire in her belly snuffed out, replaced by a rush of horror as she realises what she has done. Not even Catrina, in all of her principal arrogance, would have said those words.

She almost wants to apologise, but cannot make her tongue move in her mouth to do so. Instead she turns and flees, all the way back to the changing room where she can hide among the others, lower her head, and wait to be told that she will be one of Guinevere’s handmaids. Mithian passes, and for a long time Morgana looks at her, trying to bring herself to say congratulations, but it goes on so long that Mithian starts to look troubled by the stare, and Morgana forces herself to look away. Once the list goes up outside Uther’s door, there will be plenty of time for congratulations anyway.

 

 

 

 

Throughout her afternoon classes she feels dulled, as if something has been drained from her, listless. The teachers seem to notice, and some give her concerned glances, but she does not care. All that she wants to do is go home, huddle on the sofa in Morgause’s arms, and watch _The Red Shoes_ until she doesn’t care about anything any more.

The casting list is to go up at the end of the day, outside Uther’s office, but Morgana does not care. She knows that she will be a handmaiden. Perhaps, had she not had her little tantrum, she would have been the Lady of the Lake or some other role with proper solos. Now, though, she will be lucky to dance at all.

One of her ribbons rips when she is removing her pointe shoes, and it is all that she can do not to cry. Instead, a bubble of laughter forces its way out of her throat, and Elena looks at her worriedly. Elena is not the most elegant of the dancers, but she is remarkably strong, and can dance as powerfully as any of the men. It takes the audience by surprise every time.

Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she turns to go, the last one out of the changing rooms after cursing her shoes to within an inch of their lives. If she goes quickly, she can probably get out before any of the others see her.

“Morgana!”

Of course, she has not counted on Vivian. In rehearsals, Vivian is a nightmare, arguing even with Uther. Now, however, she grabs Morgana’s hand and whirls her around.

“Congratulations!”

Morgana looks at her blankly.

Unsurprisingly, Vivian rolls her eyes. “About the role, duh.”

“Stop playing around, Vivian,” Morgana replies, trying to wrench her arm away. Tiredness, however, has made her weak, and Vivian tows her back to where the other girls also start squealing and congratulating her.

What the fuck?

Finally, she managed to wriggle through to see the list of the roles. At the top of it, written in black and white:

_King Arthur           Arthur Pendragon_

_Merlin             Emrys Balinor_

_Morgan Le Fay         Morgana DuBois_

The scream that escaped her lips is probably a little louder than was necessary, but none of the other excitable ballerinas around her seem to notice. She is hugged, squeezed, kissed on the cheek, declared to be marvellous, but cannot stop staring at the sign on the wall.

 

 

 

 

Rehearsals are hell. Uther shouts at and insults everyone, grabs their feet to forcibly turn them further out, pushes them further down into their pliés, wrenches their heads around to face in the right directions. Within the first month, he has threatened to disown Arthur, driven Freya to tears over her ports de bras, and shouted in Morgana’s face that she will never make it as a principal, and he should fire her on the spot.

She spits back in his face that he is the director, and if he thinks so little of them then perhaps he should fire himself for getting so little out of them. For a moment, she thinks that he looks impressed, but it is gone in a second and she wonders if she imagines it.

“Again!” he snaps over his shoulder as he marches back off the practice floor. Geoffrey sighs and begins again, and Morgana dances furiously, still full of angry fire. She guides Asa, who will be dancing Mordred, across the stage, in flourishing movements. It isn’t just Sophia who can dance like a man.

“Second!” Uther barks. “Pirouette! Again! Again!”

It is the least aggressive thing that he has said all evening, and the closest that he has come to saying that they are doing something right. Morgana has not danced grand pirouette en second since she was fourteen years old and trying to prove that she was as good as any of the boys. When Arthur had performed eight turns and Morgana only six, he had laughed until she punched him in the stomach. Uther nearly had her kicked out of the school just for that, and Ygraine had needed to intervene and point out what potential Morgana had.

Now, finally, she feels as if she is showing it.

Uther only spends half the time that he usually does telling them what they did wrong. Morgana considers that a success.

 

 

 

 

Six weeks into rehearsal, something is missing. Morgana can feel that something is slightly off in her performance, and it frightens her.

“Are you frightened of this woman?” demands Uther, turning abruptly on Lancelot. Nobody actually knows what his name is since he transferred from the Ealdor company and was immediately cast as Sir Lancelot in their performance. The other girls like his sexy foreign accent and his shiny hair. Morgana thinks he is certainly a good dancer, but there is something that she does not trust. “Look at her. Do you honestly think she could kill you?”

“No,” replies Lancelot, though he sounds sorry to say it.

“Exactly.” Uther turns away. He turns his back on her, and she is furious with him. “Morgana, get off the stage. Nimueh! Come and dance this battle with Arthur. I want you as second.”

At her sides, Morgana’s hands curl into fists, but holding her head high and her posture perfect doesn’t make any difference when she is a dancer. She refuses to sit down as she watches Nimueh take her place, dance, draw Arthur around the floor in powerful lines. It is unpolished, raw, and Morgana can see a flaw in each movement – a quivering foot, a knee not stretched, fingers not properly placed.

Uther apparently disagrees. “That’s it. Show me how you would kill him.”

Morgana wants to kill Nimueh. She wants to slit the bitch’s throat and show Uther just how dangerous she can be. She wants to kill Arthur as she is being taunted to do. When Nimueh retires from the stage, Morgana storms back and demands to dance the battle again.

Uther does not comment on this practice. Arthur’s only words are to complain that she throws him to the ground too hard, and he will have a bruise from it.

Somehow, she doesn’t care.

 

 

 

 

Eight weeks into rehearsal, and one day before the dress and technical rehearsals begin, she stands at the edge of the ‘lake’ in the park, ripping her sandwich to shreds and throwing it to the ducks. Her stomach is twisting, clenching, but she blames it on anger the same way that she blames the hollowness in her cheeks on tiredness. Morgause took away the scales three weeks before.

“Morgana.”

The very voice makes her bristle. Crushing the sandwich to mush in her hands, she has to take a deep breath before she turns to face Nimueh,

“What do you want?”

Nimueh’s lips twist in a smile, but Morgana can’t see what could possibly be humorous. “I didn’t ask Uther to make me your second, you know. I just moved away from Tintagel, but didn’t want to stop dancing. I couldn’t stop dancing, it’s like air.”

“Nice to know. Tell me when you’ve got something that I might care about.”

She turns back to the lake and throws one of the lumps of bread at a duck. It gives an irritated quack, then sets about squabbling with its neighbours over the food. To her increasing anger, Nimueh simply steps up beside her, hands in her jacket pockets, wearing black leggings and some silky red top that cannot be sensible in this weather. It skims over her breasts; she isn’t wearing a bra. Morgana is furious with herself, as well, for noticing any of this.

“Look, I want to make amends. There’s a friend of mine who’s got a party tomorrow night. His name’s Aglain. He owns this underground club, _Sorcery_. It’s a good night.”

“I’m not one to party,” says Morgana. She means for it to come out angry and fierce, but her voice sounds brittle.

Nimueh gives a snort of laughter. “Somehow, I’m not surprised. Come on, it’s our last chance before performances begin. Eight shows a week for the next two months? You should live a little before that grind starts.”

“Dress rehearsal is tomorrow, technical the day after. I can’t.”

A shrug, rustling red silk and dark hair, is her only answer. Morgana grits her teeth together even as she feels Nimueh reach over and slip something into her pocket.

“If you change your mind, this is the address. It’s in Camden, kind of hard to find but I’m sure that you’ll manage it.”

She almost considers ripping up the piece of paper, but something stills her hand. The rest of the bread goes into the water as she hears Nimueh turn away.

Rehearsals are nearly over. She knows every step, every rise and fall, every movement of her hands and head. It must be perfect. _She_ must be perfect. She has no time for fighting with Nimueh when she needs to ensure that she can actually do this.

 

 

 

 

That night, she dreams about things moving according to her thoughts, setting fires and extinguishing them with her mind. Terrible monsters prowl her dreams, all wings and talons and teeth, but fall to bright swords, fireballs and slashing spells which throw them aside with all the force of being hit by a train. She dreams of an old man with golden eyes, leaning over her on a battlefield, and knows that she is dying there.

The next morning, she barely makes it to the toilet before being violently sick. Morgause holds her hair back, hands her water, and excuses her from trying to keep down anything for breakfast. The shaking is just about gone by the time that she heads to the studio.

 

 

 

 

Technical rehearsal is a litany of problems, but they fully expect that. Most of them have bought sweaters and legwarmers whilst they stand in their positions and ensure that the lights are tuned to the right places, that the orchestra knows perfectly what they are doing, that the curtains will rise and fall in perfect time.

Though she does not yet wear her costume, Morgana has her black pointe shoes and black tights already, and moves like a slender shadow when they practice snatches of dances and watch the lights follow. Unlike some of the others, she does not have the exceptionally swift changes that must take place in the wings, and is able to retire to her dressing room whenever she has to change. For this rehearsal, however, she lingers in the wings with the others to crane her head and see what is going on as much as was possible.

The day passes in such a rush that it makes her pulse race, and so slowly that it makes her giddy. Along with Arthur and Emrys, she is unable to leave at any point during the day, so while the others snatch lunches and breaks, she dances or poses or waits on the edge of the stage. She feels as if Asa and she will set the floor on fire when they dance, but with cursing still coming from Gwaine and Will among the lights the day wears on.

The final, climactic battle draws them all back to the stage. Eventually they will dress in silver and black, but for now they are wearing red and blue sashes around their waists to indicate the two groups in which they are in. Arthur and Emrys, Morgana and Asa, they all weave through the dancing corps as lash at each other. There are wires around Emrys’s and Morgana’s waists, and as the battle commences they are drawn into the air to complete their battle.

It is even harder, has been every time that they rehearsed it. But now Morgana feels as if she is flying, and as the lights flash and her muscles work to hold her perfect positions, she can feel the power surging through her.

When they finish, she is exhausted, wants to do nothing more than crawl into bed. But Uther claps, once, twice, a steady beat that lasts perhaps thirty seconds whilst they all stare at him in bald astonishment.

“There are my legends,” he says. None of them can remember him uttering a word of praise to anyone other than Ygraine before.

He does not give them an explanation before he tells them to leave.

 

 

 

 

Morgause promised that she would ring, or at least text, to see how Morgana was. When Morgana looks at her phone, however, there is no sign of anything. She frowns, then jumps as a hand brushes against her elbow.

“Changed your mind?” Nimueh’s words are a silky whisper as they drift past her ear.

Morgana jerks her arm away. “Not yet,” she snaps, then realises a moment late and when she hears Nimueh’s laughter exactly what she has said. She colours to her ears and storms to her dressing room.

 

 

 

 

She isn’t sure that she can face Morgause just yet. Not even right now, so close to her break that she can taste it, can close her eyes and imagine the way that people will clap and cheer for her when she takes her bow. She will be their star, and it is so close now...

Morgause gave up everything. She was sixteen when their father Tristan died, sixteen when she stood holding Morgana’s hand at the funeral and staring, gaze almost black, whilst Morgana wept and fought not to fall to her knees. She was sixteen when she went to the courts, fought for the custody of her then eleven-year-old younger sister, got a full time job and worked overtime anyway, twelve hours a day whilst Morgana waited in the staff canteen and did her homework, so that they could cling on. Their mother Vivienne had not really left anything, almost disowned by her family for marrying a working-class man. Tristan’s life insurance had covered accidental death, but not the cancer so ferocious that it ate him from the inside out in a matter of months.

Morgause was sixteen when she became an adult. And now Morgana is nineteen, and she has still not accomplished half of what she had hoped to by this age. _One more step,_ she promises herself. _In two days’ time the curtains will open, and the world will be yours. You will be their new principal, their new prima ballerina..._

She knows that she can do it. There have always been some of the others that look down on her, rich girls from rich families who did not scrape by on scholarships, who did not have to sew their own ribbons onto their shoes, whose leotards never looked a little too tight because Morgause’s annual pay rise to keep up with inflation was going to be a little later this year. But where she did not have money, and had perhaps done two classes a week rather than five, Morgana knew that she had talent. She knew that she could learn steps in half the time it would take anybody else, that she could move her body exactly as she wanted it to, and that when she was on stage the audience would have eyes only for her.

She could be Uther’s greatest creation – no, his greatest asset. Whilst she was part of Camelot company, she did not _belong_ to them.

Morgause would hide her nervousness in an almost aggressive ambition, egging Morgana on and talking about how, one day, she will rule the world. Morgana can imagine the gleam in her eyes, the whispered words in a tight hug.

No, Morgana cannot face Morgause yet.

She checks her phone again and finds that, finally, there has been a text from Morgause. Without even reading it, however, a flare of something that she does not recognise makes her snap her phone closed, stuff her hands into her pockets, and walk. It is, after all, only six o’clock, and much of the city will be awake yet.

She dawdles through half an hour sipping coffee and reading a newspaper, then gets a cheese and salad sandwich from the corner shop. Surprisingly, the pigeons seem to like the cheese, and with a grimace she scrapes as much of the butter as she can out before eating the remaining salad and bread. It makes her stomach jolt, but feels bearable. Afterwards she just sits on the bench watching the town slowly shift from day to night: shops closing, streetlights coming on, casual clothes and work uniforms being swapped for party outfits and high heels.

It is still impossible to face going home. _Home._ The word still feels strange in her mouth, though they’ve lived in the flat for so long. The mortgage on the home they had shared with their father had been too much, and in any case Morgana had spent every night of the first two months waking up screaming from nightmares until she had given up and slept in Morgause’s bed. They always woke up to a pillow wet with tears. For two years, Morgause had tried to make it work, using up what little savings they had inherited, but when she was eighteen and Morgana was thirteen it had fallen through, and they had needed to sell the house and move – to the flat which they now share.

It has never felt like home. Morgana thinks, quite often really, that it probably never will.

Eight o’clock is rolling around. Before too long, the streets will have metamorphosed completely into their night-time selves, and there will be nothing left for Morgana to do in that world.

As she rises, she puts her hands back into her pockets, and her fingers brush the square of paper still there. Nimueh, a party, a club. A life that Morgana has never been a part of, and has never really wanted. She has been focused on nothing but her dancing, and on pleasing Morgause, ever since her father died and took away the third thing that she cared about. Unlike other girls of her age, she has never gone dancing or gotten drunk.

Soon, though, she will not be a girl, a ballet dancer, a first soloist. Soon she will be their prima ballerina, and a new chapter of her life will begin.

Perhaps she should try, just once, to think about herself rather than about other people or her dancing.

 _Be free_ , a little voice whispers in the back of her head. _Live_.

She pulls it out, reads the address, and goes to hail a cab.

 

 

 

 

She can hear the music before she even gets out the door of the taxi, and is already starting to think that this might be a bad idea. The thudding beat resonates up through her legs and her body, settling into her skull. Though it has the same pound as a headache, she can feel her body twitching and preparing to dance, wanting to follow the shapes of the music with its own form. Gritting her teeth, Morgana almost turns back to get back into the cab again.

“Morgana!”

Nimueh actually sounds happy to see her, which Morgana is surprised by to say the least. Morgana has been civil at best to the girl ever since her rude introduction to the studio. Arms are thrown around her shoulders, and the smell of sweet cocktails and alcohol hits her. That explains a lot.

“Oh goddess, you actually came!”

Did she just hear that? Morgana blinks as she is held at arm’s length from Nimueh and that dazzling smile.

“You look _fantastic_. Come on!”

Not having gone home, Morgana is still wearing the same clothes that she had left the studio in earlier in the evening. Skinny jeans, slouching black boots, and a black camisole top are not exactly what she would define as looking ‘fantastic’, especially since the extent of treating her hair has been to let it down in the taxi and run her fingers through it a few times. Though she owns makeup, she cannot remember the last time that she wore it.

Of course, she does not voice any of these protests, but they fill her head as she is tugged by the hand into the club. They do not even check her ID – Nimueh simply flashes a smile at the doorman – and then the music is rushing through her, ravelling up inside her belly, screaming guitars and a booming bass line that thrums with her heartbeat. Morgana can feel her head swirling before she is even tugged up to the bar, Nimueh whispers in the barman’s ear, and two bright red-orange drinks are slid into them. Nimueh grabs one and wraps Morgana’s hand around the other, then raises the glasses to clink them together.

“To celebrations!” Nimueh declares, and Morgana almost has to lipread to understand it. She can’t help but think that it’s a little bit of a tautology, going round in circles, but Nimueh’s eyes are flashing in the strobe lights and the sound of the music is running through her whole body.

“To celebrations!” she shouts back, already feeling her voice growing hoarse, and downs the drink in one.

Nimueh does the same, and they slam their glasses down onto the table at the same time. Morgana can feel fire in her throat and her heartbeat in her head, and she cannot help but laugh at the same time as Nimueh does, giggles bursting out of her. She cannot remember the last time that she giggled.

It turns out pretty quickly that Nimueh knows the barman, and she pushes away Morgana’s purse when she tries to pay for one of the round of drinks that they plough through. When she asks what it is, Nimueh says very loudly in her ear that the rounds are alternating sex on the beach and red headed sluts. For some reason, this is hilarious, and they both laugh harder.

“Barkeep!” Nimueh declares with a dramatic flair of her hand. “Blowjobs, please!”

They barely bother to talk between drinking. It makes Morgana’s head whirl, and makes the music reach not only to her heart but also between her thighs. It is just so _easy_. Somewhere down the line, she leans over to Nimueh’s ear to ask at a shout why she joined Camelot company. Nimueh slurs back that she just needed to move on from Tintagel, and heard that Uther Pendragon was a good director.

“Good director, sure,” says Morgana, “but he’s a fucking prick.”

They laugh as this is a wonderful joke, and then shot-glasses are slammed down in front of them. They contain some brown, chocolaty mix, and are topped with whipped cream that sticks to their skin. As Morgana giggles and looks in her bag for a napkin, Nimueh leans across instead and licks the cream off Morgana’s upper lip.

It makes her breath hitch. She looks at Nimueh in the darkness, her eyes almost black, blue flashes dancing across her skin.

Their lips meet in a vicious clash, hands reaching for each other’s faces and hair, tasting of orange and chocolate and vodka all together. Nimueh’s hot tongue licks the roof of her mouth, and Morgana scrapes her teeth over Nimueh’s lip in response.

When she was eighteen, some of her friends had managed to coax her out just for one night. It had been loud, and the alcohol had made her feel a little sick, and she had tried kissing a guy but it had felt distinctly... flat.

She wants to rip Nimueh’s clothes off. A fire builds in her belly and her hands slide lower, cupping Nimueh’s breasts through her top, feeling the warmth of skin in her hands.

“Come on,” Nimueh whispers into her mouth, taking her hands and squeezing them tightly. “Let’s dance.”

 

 

 

 

This dance is nothing like ballet. It is all swaying hips, and waving arms, and careless movements of the body. Morgana lets her eyes fall half-closed in the flashing lights and her lips part, and Nimueh’s hands have to guide her hips to move because she has spent her whole life learning how to hold them perfectly steady. It feels good; it feels _fucking_ good, and what feels even better is the way that Nimueh is standing hip-to-hip with her and every movement seems to bump their bodies together.

It is intoxicating. No more impersonal hands on her waist or hips, no more eyes locked on a distant audience. Shoulders bump into her from behind, elbows nudge her back, and Nimueh’s hands are hot and sweaty on her hips. She leans in again, sweat streaming down her body and pooling in the hollows of her bones, and captures Nimueh’s lips with hers. Teeth graze her upper lip, leaving it feeling plump and vulnerable and sensuous, then she tilts her head and presses deeper, the tip of her tongue tracing deep into Nimueh’s mouth, making lines across her tongue, curling against her teeth. She feels, more than hears, when Nimueh moans and tightens her hands more, her thumbs brushing over the hem of Morgana’s jeans. It hooks against her skin and is hardly more than a touch, but it sends jolts straight between her thighs.

One of her knees slips between Nimueh’s thighs as Morgana drags them closer together. In response, Nimueh’s thigh grinds between her legs, her hands going to cup Morgana’s ass. She can feel every finger pressing hard through her skin-tight jeans, holding her in place for the wet open-mouthed kisses being slathered along her jaw. One of her hands slides up beneath Nimueh’s top, feeling the taut muscles of her belly give way to the harder ridges of her ribs, the small round breast untamed by any bra. Her fingers find the nipple, squeezing gently and rolling, instinctive.

She doesn’t want to even think about the fact that she is a virgin. Or about the fact that she has barely ever found pleasure even in touching herself. It doesn’t _matter_. She understands this, understands Nimueh’s body, as easy as breathing or walking or learning how to dance in this glorious uncaring undemanding way. Around them, the music blares, and people might be staring. It does not matter in the slightest.

Before she knows it, she is panting and breathless, and she can barely figure out where Nimueh’s skin ends and hers begins. Morgana’s hands are beneath Nimueh’s top, Nimueh’s hands are inside Morgana’s jeans, and their hips and thighs are grinding haphazardly together Someone tries to grab at Morgana from behind, and she slaps them away, and Nimueh laughs just a little cruelly and tugs Morgana away by the hand.

They stumble out of the club arm in arm, shining with sweat, still pausing every step or two to try and kiss in sloppy, moaning movements as they grope at each other. The doorman laughs and wolf-whistles, and Nimueh completely ignores him as she pulls Morgana down the whole of two streets before they stumble against what must be her front door.

“Come on,” Nimueh whispers. She manages to open her door without looking; that’s probably a good thing, in Morgana’s view, because both of them are already more interested in the way that Morgana’s tongue feels against Nimueh’s nipples. Thank god that it is the dead of night, and there will be no-one to see, part of Morgana thinks, but most of her still doesn’t give a fuck.

They fall over at one point just trying to get up the flight of stairs to Nimueh’s flat. Morgana is not even coherent enough to speak, half-blinded with lust, feeling as if she can wrench open doors with raw strength or force of will alone.

“ _Fuck_.” It isn’t even an exclamation, just a breath, as Morgana throws Nimueh down onto the bed. For a split second, she just appreciates how the woman looks: face flushed, hair tangled, top tugged down around her waist to reveal her breasts and the pink marks that led all the way from her lips down to her nipples.

Morgana wants to do more. Tingles are running up and down her body, the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end and aching desire wrapping around her chest, her stomach, clenching between her thighs. She pulls off first one and then the other of Nimueh’s boots, then reaches up to grab leggings and knickers together and peel them both down Nimueh’s leanly muscled legs.

Perfume and sweat and the smell of sex surround them as Morgana kicks off her boots and kneels down over Nimueh, pinning her into the bed and kissing her harshly once again. Legs wrap around her hips, trying to draw her closer, and Nimueh’s back arches to press her breasts up.

“Tell me,” Morgana whispers harshly, an order. “ _Tell_ me.”

Nimueh just gasps and writhes, her body speaking where her tongue will not. Morgana moves her attention downwards again, sucking at Nimueh’s neck, her collarbone, the line between her breasts. She wraps her lips around one tight nipple and coaxes it with her tongue, drawing circles and then flicking, with building speed, just to see how Nimueh will squirm.

Heat and warmth flash between her legs. Nimueh’s thighs are still draped around her back, and as Morgana slips lower she feels them parting for her, allowing her mouth to trace down belly and flank and hip to suckle against the inside of her thigh. She wants Nimueh to wear bruises and red marks, like little flags all over her body to show where Morgana’s mouth has been. They will show perfectly on her pale skin.

Nimueh stifles a moan on the back of her hand, and Morgana leans up for a moment to snatch that arm away. _Let the world hear as I unmake you_.

Her first touch to Nimueh’s sex is a slow, soft lick that traces all the way along the heated flesh. Arousal, warm and salt-sweet, lingers on her tongue and in her nose as she repeats it, pressing slightly harder, the tip of her tongue just parting Nimueh’s lips. It is with the same agonising slowness that she lets her tongue explore, tracing unpredictable lines and curves, waiting for a hitch of breath or a twitch of a muscle to show her where to return, to point her tongue and move faster, to press her lips down and suck to hear Nimueh make those strangled moans that she is still trying to hold back.

Before this night is out, Morgana will hear her scream.

She can feel the heat pouring off Nimueh’s skin, feel as well as taste her arousal. The woman’s thighs are tensed, either side of Morgana’s head, and her shaved-bare skin is gleaming and flushed already. To know that she has done this, that she can give and take pleasure with the merest touch of her mouth, gives Morgana a heady rush that makes her rub her own pelvis against the bedspread, feeling the seam of her jeans against her.

Slowly her mouth traces higher, up Nimueh’s lips to reach her raised clit, earning an instant buck of the hips and a needy sound, no longer muffled. Her tongue seems to know naturally how to move, soft wet circles at first until Nimueh’s hips are moving in small jerky circles as well beneath her, and she has to grip them hard to hold her down. Pressing her lips down hard, she sucks gently, tongue moving faster and flicking up and down. Her breathing is hard, but it is nothing compared to Nimueh’s pants, the way that her muscles are shifting and cording seemingly out of her own control.

“ _Tell me_ ,” Morgana orders her, teeth just catching her skin.

“Oh, goddess, please,” the words tumble from Nimueh’s lips. “So close, I can feel it, just there...”

Not yet, Morgana decides sharply. Not yet, with her head between Nimueh’s thighs and Nimueh’s heels digging into her shoulders. She draws back to a disappointed sound – _“Please, Morgana, please, goddess...”_ – and moves sharply up Nimueh’s body. The woman’s hair is a dark tangled fan around her head, her breasts heaving, lips parted and desperate.

Morgana curls one hand in Nimueh’s hair and uses it to pin her down to the bed, leaning in for another kiss. It is angry, possessive, and she bites Nimueh’s lips and forces her tongue into her mouth, into the longing openness. With one leg, she holds Nimueh’s right leg down, keeping her hips spread, and with her other hand replaces the work of her tongue.

With Morgana’s tongue in her mouth, Nimueh cannot speak, but the movements of her body beg, her wide-spread thighs offering herself up, the tilt of her hips into Morgana’s hands. She is so slick that Morgana does not struggle at all to slide two fingers into her, as far as she can reach. The hot wet of Nimueh surrounds her, holding her in, bands of muscle tightening. She keens, deep in her throat. Morgana’s thumb slides up to Nimueh’s clit again, massaging in circles, increasing the pressure in time with the tightness around her fingers, skin slipping. Nimueh tries to arch up, but the hand in the hair holds her down and she grunts in pain instead, her body fighting against Morgana’s and losing. Her hands wrap painfully tightly around the top of Morgana’s arm, and Morgana feels a rush of wetness between her legs, a pounding in time with her heartbeat, and fucks harder with her fingers as she finally releases Nimueh’s mouth from hers.

“Oh, fuck,” Nimueh gasps, her mind gone, eyes almost closed. “Oh fuck, yes, _there_ , I can feel you in me, more, please...”

“Tell me how many have done this to you,” Morgana whispers in her ear.

“I don’t know, I d- don’t count,” Nimueh stutters. “Men, women, I... oh, _goddess_ , don’t stop what you’re doing, please don’t.”

Morgana bites her ear, and earns a tight, short scream.

“It always feels so good, just not as good as this.” The words are panted, desperate, as if Morgana is holding her back from climax in search of some deep secret. Perhaps she is. She adds a third finger to the ones already inside Nimueh, and now little moans and groans are coming with every breath, not even controlled. “Sex... is so free. It’s the closest thing to magic that we have.”

She speaks the words as if they are her own most private revelation, and then her head throws back, her legs straightening and body arching, a rumbling cry building deep in her throat. Her muscles clench tight around Morgana’s fingers as the heat melts, wetness seeping down deep-buried fingers, the waves crashing through her body and finally pushing her voice from her lips.

“Morgana!”

The name moves seamlessly into her scream. Morgana feels a rush of pleasure and heat and power all at once and kisses Nimueh’s mouth again, her hand stilling to cup instead of claim, feeling fingers tracing slowly along the line of her neck.

Nimueh’s head falls back, panting, tremors still running through her body.

 _The closest thing to magic,_ Morgana thinks. _Here in my hands_.

 

 

 

 

When she awakes the next morning the room is muggy and musty, heavy with the smells of alcohol and sex. Morgana’s head feels as tight as a vice and there is a warm almost-pain settled in her hips and the small of her back. She groans as she tries to sit up, then realises that, beside her, Nimueh is still asleep face-down in the pillows and on top of the mussed covers and their scattered clothes.

She tries to remember the previous night; it comes back in fuzzy patches, as if she is not sure whether it is a dream or reality. As Nimueh rolls over and opens bleary eyes, however, she reveals the marks scattered all down her chest and the inside of her thighs, and the fact that it is real is written clearly across her skin.

Morgana smirks at the sight as she shifts, parting her sticky thighs and pushing knots of hair off her face. “Good morning,” she says. Her voice is husky; perhaps it is from the second time around, when she let Nimueh’s tongue and fingers take their turn instead.

Nimueh looks at her for a moment, apparently trying hard to focus and squinting though the blinds are still keeping out most of the light. Then realisation throws them wide. “Shit. Dress rehearsal.”

A flash of panic runs through Morgana as well, and she turns wildly, looking for a clock. Nimueh tumbles off the bed, grabs her coat from by the door, and manages to fumble her phone out of the pocket. Every time she moves, it throws off a new wave of the smell of her body, and Morgana wants to drag her back to the bed again. When Nimueh bends off, it reveals her sex between her slightly parted legs, still flushed and swollen from the previous night. Already, Morgana has decided that she loves the feeling of this, sex, power, above anything else – except, of course, dancing.

“Fuck. We need to go. _Now_.”

They don’t even talk about what has happened as they knock back aspirin, running for the underground that will take them to the final preparations for dress rehearsal. Nimueh is the first of Guinevere’s handmaidens, who helps the queen to meet with Lancelot, and she has solos to prepare for. Morgana has even more to do.

There are plenty of raised eyebrows when they sweep in, but Morgana does not care. Even after she has changed, sprayed her hair tightly into place, and had her makeup done, she can see the way that the others look at her. She wonders whether they know, or suspect, or are thinking of something else altogether.

In comparison to the technical rehearsal, dress is smooth and fluid, and Morgana can feel herself dominating the stage. She wields Asa like a puppet, uses him to destroy Arthur, then turns to face Emrys for the final battle. When she is cast to the ground, it is only because she has fought with every inch of her defiance, and she knows that any success Emrys might have in his role will be tempered by how much she has wrung from him. At the end of the second act, only Merlin will still stand upon the stage, dancing among the dead, the ageless sorcerer lonely in his immortality.

 

 

 

 

The rehearsal is perfect. All that they are missing is the rush of the crowd, and that will come tomorrow, opening night, when all of the ballet aficionados and patrons of the troupe will be there. Uther, however, merely gives them a satisfied nod and says that he wants everybody who has solos to see the physiotherapist and the massage team during the afternoon.

They are close. So breathlessly close. Morgana can see the others moving towards her with warm smiles and delighted looks, but she is not sure that she can bear Gwen’s sincere congratulations, or Mithian’s collected admiration, or Elena’s rib-crushing hugs. She flees to her dressing room, still in full costume, and closes the door behind her to stand in front of the mirror and meet her own eyes.

She has danced in front of mirrors for as long as she can remember. Hair in a ballerina’s bun, bare-faced or in stage makeup, in ballet tights and leotards and touch canvas shoes. She knows how she looks from every angle, how she compares to the other girls and to herself as she used to be. For years, she has watched as pliés reached lower, as her devéloppés reached higher, as her pas de bourrées tightened to make her glide across the stage.

The woman in the mirror does not look like a ballet dancer. She is a creature of myth and legend, dressed in black and jewelled, her eyes sparkling and surrounded by gems. Guinevere will wear a romantic tutu, sweeping her movements across the stage; Morgan le Fay’s dress has less shape to it, almost Sylvia-esque, in fluttering black silk and flashing black crystals, long tassels reaching deeper than the cut of the hem to give some femininity to the shape of it. Somewhere between what the men will wear and what the other women will dance in, she is an in-between, an anomaly among all ballerinas, and will own the stage. She wears black pointe shoes – or at least will on stage; they are currently over one shoulder. Her eyes are full of fire, surrounded by flashes of green and blue, lips the deep red of old blood.

Morgan le Fay looks back at her from the mirror, and smiles.

 

 

 

 

There are four voicemails on her phone, the first one angry but the successive ones becoming more panicked, and Morgana struggles to steel herself to ring Morgause back. She holds the black feather in her hand as she finally dials the number, sitting in her tiny dressing room with her back against the mirror.

It is picked up on the second ring. Morgause is fast, but not usually this fast.

 _“Morgana?”_ She sounds breathless. _“Oh my god, Morgana, are you all right? Where are you?”_

“I’m at the company,” Morgana says. She can’t tell whether her voice is still a little rough or not. “It was technical rehearsal today.”

_“I know, but you didn’t come home last night.”_

“I stayed at a friend’s.”

_“A friend’s?”_

Morgana cannot bring herself to be insulted by the surprise in Morgause’s voice. Since she was a child, all that she has needed in her life has been ballet and Morgause. Friends were an afterthought. Though she had been to a few ‘sleepovers’ in her younger years, she had never much cared for socialising.

“One of the other dancers,” she says, and almost surprises herself with the confidence that oozes from her voice. “The rehearsals have been intense, you know? We just went out, got some coffee... I decided to stay at hers.”

_“You need to tell me these things, Morgana.”_

Morgause sounds frustrated, but it is clear that her anger is already waning. She is relieved more than anything else.

_“Are you coming home tonight?”_

“Of course. Rehearsals might run a little late, though.”

Rehearsals are already finished, but there are other things which she wants to practice. They heavily involve Nimueh.

 _“I’ll have dinner ready,”_ Morgause promises. Morgana’s stomach gives another twist at the thought of eating. _“Tuna salad, your favourite._ ”

She manages to twist a smile into her voice. “I’ll do my best. Hopefully, I’ll be back by seven.”

 

 

 

 

She doesn’t manage to steal time with Nimueh until midway through the afternoon. Nimueh is soft and shiny with oil from having her muscles massaged, and it is makes Morgana breathless just to know that the bruises on her skin will have been on display. The masseur is a professional, and will not say anything, but that doesn’t change that he will _know_.

They swap a few words, knowing smirks, and as soon as they can slip away from the sight of the others and hide in the janitor’s closet, leaning against the door to keep it closed. Then it is all heated mouths and grasping hands, and though Morgana keeps a spare bag of clothes at the studio it is clear that Nimueh does not, and has no spare underwear to cover herself with.

Morgana drops to her knees and holds Nimueh’s hips tightly back against the door. People are right outside, barely feet away, but the taste of Nimueh is intoxicating and as long as she bites down on her hand, she does not make enough noise to be heard. Morgana digs her nails into the thighs parted for her, coaxes Nimueh ever onward with her tongue, and feels the rolling heat of triumph alongside the pleasure that pulses through her when Nimueh fights to keep silent as she comes.

She leaves the closet with a smirk on her lips and the smell of Nimueh still in her nose. It makes the rest of the afternoon considerably more pleasant.

 

 

 

 

In the end, she is home just in time for dinner. Morgause appears before the door is even fully open, pulling Morgana into a painfully tight embrace. “Oh, sister. I thought something must have happened to you!”

Her voice is rough as well, but Morgana suspects that it is for a far different reason. She pats Morgause’s back gently as a hand strokes at her hair, and pulls slowly away when she deems it safe. “I’m fine. I just... the production, you know. It’s been intense.”

Morgause cups her jaw in one hand, a warm smile now finding her face. There are more lines around her eyes than there should be at just twenty-four, but Morgana cannot remember a time before them. “I’m sorry. I know that I should trust you. It’s just that...” for a moment, she chokes on her words, shaking her head slightly. “No matter. You’re safe, and that’s the important thing. Come on, I’ve got dinner ready.”

She holds Morgana’s hand, as if they are children again, to lead her into the kitchen. Two plates of tuna salad already sit on the table, neatly laid, glasses and a jug of water between them. From time to time, Morgause would do this, and previously Morgana had hated it for being such a pretence of the normality, the _family_ , that she could not have. Now, though, she squeezes Morgause’s hand, because something tells her that is what is needed.

“Thank you. Really.”

Morgause watches her like a mother watching a child. Throughout her meal, Morgana pretends not to see it, making her way through the salad, leaves first before finally giving in to the sweetcorn and the tuna as well. It tastes better than she remembers food ever doing. Part of her wants to put it down to the memories of the taste of Nimueh, and she presses her thighs together, putting a larger forkful of food in her mouth to stop herself from smiling at the thought again.

“I haven’t seen you eat like that in years,” says Morgause softly, breaking into Morgana’s flitting concentration. Morgana looks up, raising her eyebrows, from where she has been picking the last pieces of lettuce from the edge of her plate.

She supposes that it is true. Most of the other dancers eat heartily; when you spend all of your days pushing your body to its physical limits, it is only understandable that you would need to eat plenty. It has been years, though, since Morgana has wanted to sit and truly fill her stomach. Their mother had been a good cook. True, there had been part of Morgana that had watched her skin settle over her bones and her body slowly start to float and been _pleased_ with it, but enjoying food too much would always have been an insult to their mother.

“You have not seemed yourself lately,” Morgause continues. “Or at least... I did not think so. But then I realised...”

She reaches across, takes Morgana’s hand from across the table.

“It’s like you’re waking up. Like you’re the most of ‘yourself’ that you have been in years.”

 

 

 

 

The ballet is called _Camelot_. But Arthur is only the puppet of the story, and Merlin and Morgan le Fay are the ones who toy with him. Their _pas de trois_ makes it clear from the moment that they throw Arthur back and forth across the stage that it will be their fight which is played out, and Emrys in his blue tunic and white tights will never look as striking as Morgana in her black and her flashing movements.

Finally, Emrys throws her aside – for now, the audience knows that it is only for now – and applause erupts, rushing over her like waves even though she is behind the thick curtains of backstage. It roars in her veins, and though she knows that onstage the most famous dramas are being played out – Arthur falling into despair, Merlin showing him the sword in the stone, his rise to kingship, his romance with the beautiful Guinevere as he steals her away from Lancelot – the audience are waiting for her. Their leading lady.

 _Prima donna_.

No-one will breathe the words. Not yet. It would be too arrogant to claim them herself, of course, as well; it does not do to call _oneself_ the _prima_.

Scene two might be Merlin’s, but scene three is Morgan le Fay’s. It is then that she comes to Arthur, stealing onto the stage to seduce him, enrapturing him into their _pas de deux_. She can feel the audience watching, spellbound, as she floats across the stage and unravels him, the music drawing out her triumph into the air. When finally the lights flash and Asa bursts out, she can almost hear the gasps.

Whilst Asa dances, she and Arthur are frozen, statues at the rear of the stage. He kneels, hands supporting her waist as she holds her dramatic arabesque penchée, arms sweeping back as if she is flying, turnout perfect. But Asa, _Mordred_ , their child, dances across the stage, and he has Morgan le Fay’s drama and Arthur’s strength, and the audience almost weeps.

 

 

 

 

Arthur and his men are pawns. In her dance, Morgana rains her armies and her terrors down upon them, drawing up fear and desperation, but never making them break. Not until she takes Lancelot under her spell, dances as if she were possessing him, using him to move across the stage, does she strike a blow. She uses Lancelot to steal Guinevere away, and the audience watch enraptured though this is the most famous part of all.

Arthur rages, Arthur hurts, but she knows that he does not command all of the audience’s sympathy. Merlin coaxes him back from the brink of terror, and it is then that Morgan le Fay moves again, this time taking up Mordred as her weapon, weaving monsters out of darkness, creatures of magic coming to her call for all that they were under Mordred’s banner.

Camlann. The last scene, the last battle. Their _grand pas d’action_. Merlin sends forth Arthur, the knights; Morgan le Fay responds with Mordred and the creatures he leads. They clash. The _pas de deux_ between Arthur and Mordred is a thing of wonder, the choreography breathtaking as lights and movements and the swords they imply with their movements come together to form something as close to perfection as Morgana has ever seen. Even she watches, her heart in her throat, as she is clipped to the wires that will let her fly.

Arthur casts down Mordred. In return, Morgan le Fay destroys him, rips out his heart and stands over his body, pas de bourrées making her float as her port de bras, the tilt of her head, tells of both her victory and her knowledge that this means the end is coming.

Because Merlin takes to the stage then. Unlike her other fights, where she has drawn the men around the stage, she has to fight him for every inch, every move, every drag of every muscle. And it makes her feel _alive_. Alive, burning, everything that she has ever been meant to be, even as Morgan le Fay is thrown down from her spiralling flight, folds down onto the floor, back still arched so that her face is visible, a white oval among the seeping darkness of the stage.

When Merlin descends, it is into darkness, into a sea of death. He has not triumphed.

 

 

 

 

The audience weep and scream and applaud for her. For _her_ , more than any of the others, and though she takes her bow at Emrys’s side, both of them know that it is Morgana the audience have fallen for.

Uther stands on the edge of the stage, just hidden from sight. As she exits past him, he catches her eye, and nods just once. It is enough.

There are hugs, embraces, tears flowing freely as the adrenaline of the opening night wears off. “Twenty minutes!” shouts Hunith. “Then all first soloists and above are meeting and greeting.”

She will be shown off to the patrons and the charitable givers who have come to see what their money has created, but Morgana does not care. She cannot feel the pain that she knows must be coursing through her body, cannot feel the exhaustion, the light-headedness. Fire burns in her veins, swells in her skin.

In her dressing room, a black gown waits for her, the armour in which she is supposed to clad herself before meeting with the men who think that they own her by their gifts of money to the ballet. In this moment, though, she is far more certain that she owns _them_ , that every penny they have given up has been for her, what she can do, the glamour she can cast upon the stage.

She finds Nimueh amid the crowd of dancers, sweeps over to her, and spins her round in one fluid gesture. The smallest curl of hair has teased free at Nimueh’s temple, probably in the last dance, and Morgana strokes it back into place with gentle fingers. Then, because she can help it no longer, because her body is trembling with energy and power, and because Nimueh is soft and her eyes gleam with hot admiration, Morgana kisses her again.

Nimueh holds her tightly in return, and she can still hear the audience’s wondering applause in her mind.

And _this_ is what it means to be perfect.


End file.
